


The Muggleborn Society

by Munya Enany (blackbeakk)



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Muggleborn, Next Generation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-05 21:25:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13396542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbeakk/pseuds/Munya%20Enany
Summary: Set in 2015, 4 muggleborn girls from around the world meet at Hogwarts, but it doesn’t take long for them to realize something is very wrong





	1. A Brief Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you if you’re reading this :)
> 
> Also available on Wattpad- @music-over-matter - and FanFiction.Net

Sam  
Toronto, Canada  
June 16, 2016

"Samantha Edgely to the office," a stern voice calls over the intercom. That's a voice I know very well. I hear that voice every day lecturing me about a different rule that I've supposedly 'broken' 

I stop midstride, and look around. The halls are empty, and my footsteps echo eerily. Everyone is in class, and I've just earned myself detention. Again. Ah, the joys of boarding school. At the start of the year, I'd dodge the admin, ditch detention, and hide when I was called to the office. Fast forward 9 months, and the detention supervisors get worried if I don't show up at 3:30. 

As I reach the office, I push open the door, flashing a grin to the most recent secretary; Mr. Dirk, "welcome to Rosewood! You'll be seeing a lot of me in the office, so let's do introductions," ignoring his confused gape, I stick out my hand, "I'm Sam. Short for Samantha, but nobody calls me that," he awkwardly shakes my outstretched hand as I glance around the room, "Is Kingsley in? By the way, I like what you've done with the place. The last secretary covered the entire room in pink sparkles and cat pictures.  
He clears his throat, "Yes, Mrs. Kingsley is here. Her office is straight - 

"I know where it is thanks," I cut him off, waving a hand dismissively. 

Walking into Mrs. Kingsley's office is basically the only constant in my life. As much as it sucks, the fact that I'm being called into the office is almost reassuring, because no matter how much anything else changes, at least I'll always be a delinquent. Silver linings in cloudy skies, eh? 

"Samantha. Sit down," the stern voice says. The owner of said voice is wearing a pink pantsuit, and so much lipliner it put Kylie Jenner to shame. 

After I've plonked my butt down in a black cushioned chair, I stare into icy blue eyes silently for a minute. When the Headmistress doesn't say anything, I Break the silence flatly, "so I'm sitting. Do you have something to scold me for, or should I just take a detention slip and leave?" 

Mrs. Kingsley purses her lips, "Samantha, we need to discuss your grades. Over this past year, you've become increasingly difficult. Today was the last – 

"Straw?" I take the word out of her mouth and sit forward in the seat, "please. Enlighten me. What rule did I break this time?" 

"Well, first of all, you aren't in class right now," she begins, sighing tiredly, knowing an argument is building. 

"You called me into the office," I say pointedly. You can't get me in trouble for coming. 

Mrs. Kingsley blinks forcefully, attempting to gather her thoughts, "Samantha, what I meant to say, is that you were called in because you had left class. 

I nod slowly, growing slightly, "not following. Did you get to the part where I Break a rule yet?" I know exactly how much I'm aggravating the headmistress, and I'm revelling in the feeling of having the upper hand. 

"Samantha. You ditched class. What is there to not understand?" she huffs, exasperated, smoothing our her blouse as if she could smooth the conversation out with it. 

"Ah. See, here's the plot twist. My favourite part," I say grinning as I lean back in the chair casually, "I got permission to leave class." 

"Samantha, I think you'll find that no teacher at Rosewood would simply let you leave class." 

"And I think you'll find that Mr. Akinson did just that. I said, 'Sir, may I be excused?' He said yes," honestly I'm really getting tired of explaining my every move. 

Mrs. Kingsley rolls her eyes, any and all signs of professionalism gone. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. However, the board and I have been speaking, and we've come to a decision." She pauses, and I motion for her to continue, "you won't be coming back to Rosewood next year." 

There was a beat of silence before I let out a loud, laugh. "That's my punishment?" my eyes have gone wide, and I'm sure that I look completely insane, "I don't have to come back to this pile of crud next year?!" I blow a raspberry, "boo-hoo I'm so sad!"

"Samantha Caroline Edgely!" Mrs. Kingsley bellows. She's standing now, and so I mirror her action. "Have some respect! A little bit of tact! What would your father say if he saw you now?" 

Every bit of logic flies out the window at that comment. "Do not. Talk. About my father. You can expel me, fine. Send me to freaking military school, I don't care. But do not bring my father into this!" I realize I'm shouting , my voice ringing in my ears. Mrs Kingsley sits back down, realizing her mistake. 

"Sam. You will pack your bags tonight. You will be brought home tomorrow. You will attend Whiteoaks elementary school. Am I making myself clear?" she rubs her temples, clearly exhausted. I tend to have that effect on people. 

"Crystal," I'm still seething, but by the time the adrenaline wears off, I feel myself getting tired as well. I don't like this place, and to be honest, I don't really care where I go, so long as it's not here. I stand and run a hand through my red hair, "whatever you say, Mom," I say as I walk out of the office. 

"Samantha!" She calls after me, and I pause, "Happy Birthday," is all she says. 

 

I sit on my four poster bed, mentally debating myself. I hate her, one side was screaming. She hasn't actually done anything wrong, the other fires back. As much I hate to admit it, the latter is correct. Mrs. Kingsley – or Ella, as I call her – has taken care of me pretty well, even letting me come to her school – however snooty my classmates may be. She's fed me, clothed me, put up with my attitude- she deserves a trophy for that one – and yet, I still hate her. 

My roommates walk in right on cue. Just a little too blonde and peppy for me, but they're okay at the end of the day. Close on their heels, is my stepbrother Jason. Yep, stepbrother. Ella is my stepmom. She married my dad, who took off last year when he got a huge promotion. As disappointing as it was, I had thought he'd at least take me with him. Nope. He left me with Ella and Jason, and I haven't seen him since. Can you say cliché? 

"What do you want?" I groan, not bothering to look up at him. 

Jason throws a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended, "what, a guy can't come visit his little sister, without being accused of having an ulterior motive?" 

I glance up at him, noticing how his eyes were blue like his mom, but while her eyes are icy and cold, his are clear skies, and cotton candy. "Okay. Why are you actually here?" 

I can feel the bed dip with his weight as he sits down next to me, "mom might have asked me to help you pack," I feel my anger flare up at the mention of Ella, but I stay silent as he holds up a hand, signaling that he wasn't done talking, "I know it's been hard on you since your dad .. well, you know. And I know it must be hard for everything to be changing so quickly. So, I want you to know..." he trails off, suddenly sheepish. 

"What?" I demand, giddy that he's flustered, since he's usually so sure of himself. 

Jason groans and lies back on the bed, "are you really gonna make me say it? You know what I mean!" 

"Yes," I say laying on the bed with him, "this is not something I will pass up. Spit it out."  
He huffs in annoyance, "you, are the most infuriating fifth grader I have ever met in my life, you know that?" I nod, a grin still on my face, "fine. I'm here for you, if you ever need to talk about anything." 

I sit up giggling, "see, that wasn't so hard, now was it? And while we're on the topic of talking, I finished The Maze Runner series." 

Jason pushes himself off the bed, "how about I make you a deal. I'll answer any questions you have if you start to pack up all this crap you have lying around," he picks up a box and begins throwing clothes in as if to emphasize. 

I follow his lead, pulling my hair into a ponytail and opening a box. "deal." 

_______________________________

Layla 

Chicago, USA 

June 16th, 2015 

 

 

"Miss Ahmad? Pay attention please. It may be the end of the year, but you're still in my class. If you don't want to be here, please leave my class," My teacher, Mrs. Delutis said to me in that sugary tone of hers that was sweet I wanted to puke. 

 

"I don't want to be here. It's the law," is what I wanted to say to her, but instead I bit my tongue and nodded, my eyes never leaving hers. 

 

"Do you have any idea what I'm teaching, Miss Ahmad? Or are you so immersed in those doodles of yours that you forgot what class this is?" I opened my mouth to respond, I know exactly what she's teaching, but I'm cut off, "just so you know, art really won't get you anywhere. If you want to do something with your life, I suggest listening to the important subjects,"

 

I blinked forcefully. Leave it. Leave it. Leave it. I tell myself repeatedly, but I can't. I can't just sit there and take a mocking teacher say that to me. 

 

"You were teaching cross multiplication. You line up the numbers, A over B, and C over D. Then you multiply them diagonally," I said this politely but forcefully, proving a point. Proving her wrong. 

 

Mrs. Delutis stares pointedly at me for a minute, before turning swiftly and saying sharply, "detention for a week Miss Ahmad."

My eyes pop out of my head, what had I done to earn myself a detention?! Answer the damn question?! I groan internally, barely caring anymore. This is my first - and hopefully last - year at this school, and all year Mrs. Delutis gave me a hard time, failing me on tests I should've gotten right, giving detentions for absolutely no reason. I'm just happy there's only 10 more days before summer vacation. I expected some racism coming from other students, but not from my math teacher! I couldn't care less about bullies, none of them know what they're talking about anyway. But a teacher is a different story. She decides whether or not I pass, and I really don't  want to go to summer school. At least this is after this I have art, and then I get to go home. Speaking of next period, I glance up at the clock. 1 minute.

 

Mrs. Delutis drones on. My classmates snicker at me. I doodle.

 

30 seconds. Kids start packing their bags. Mrs. Delutis drops the whiteboard marker. 

 

10 seconds. Homework is assigned. 

 

"And Miss Ahmad- 

 

The bell rings. 

 

"Sorry, Mrs. Delutis, I have a 'useless' class to get to. I'll be here for detention," I say coldly, walking out of that hellhole called math class. 

 

As I walk through the crowded hallways, somebody taps me on the shoulder. I roll my eyes, knowing who it is. 

 

"Hey Chlöe. Yes, math sucked. No, I don't have any food. I got another detention, so I can't walk home with you today," I turn around to face my best friend, but instead of a short blonde girl, I find a tall dark haired boy, who looks like he's in grade eight. 

 

"What do you want?" I ask bluntly. 

 

He chuckles, obviously thrown off by my approach, "you're Layla, right?"

 

"Yes."

 

He rubs the back of his neck, nervous from how cold my attitude is, "I'm uh-I'm supposed to take you to Hollowitz."

 

Hollowitz is the grade eight art teacher. I'm in grade five. What does he want with me? 

 

"Lead the way," I hear myself say. 

 

He starts walking towards the senior art studio, and I stop in my tracks, "wait," I call out, and he spins around to face me. 

 

I walk towards him, and jab a finger in his chest, "if  this is another sick joke, I swear, I will personally, kick your nuts so far up your butt that you'll be pissing out of your ears."

 

He nods slowly, before turning back around and walking down the hall. I follow wordlessly. 

 

"So, Layla, what do you like to do in your free time?"

 

I shrug, "why do you want to know?"

 

"Jeez for a ten year old you sure know how to make a guy uncomfortable," he says looking at me. 

 

"Eleven," I correct him, "today is my birthday."

 

"My bad," we walk in silence for a couple of minutes, "By the way, I'm Adam. Sorry, I should've introduced myself earlier."

 

I nod, "nice  to meet you Adam. And I don't mean to ruin your moment where you reveal that you're Muslim too and all that crap, but Hollowitz's room is right here,"  I push open the door, ignoring Adam's gaping expression and drop my messenger bag on the floor.

 

"Mr. Hollowitz?" Adam calls, looking for the teacher in the empty studio. He turns to look at me, "by the way, how'd you know I'm Muslim? Adam can be a white name too."

 

I roll my eyes, "later," I walk around the studio looking for Mr. Hollowitz, when suddenly I hear a booming warm voice, "Layla! I wasn't sure Adam could persuade you to come!"

 

I spin on my heel to see an tall man - Mr. Hollowitz. 

 

"Hello sir," I wave politely not knowing what to say, "uhm, I don't mean to bel rude sir, but why exactly did you call me here? You teach grade eight, and I'm in grade five."

 

His face breaks into an even bigger smile, "right, right!" he gestures to a couple of chairs, "sit, sit! You too Adam!"

 

I sit down, incredibly uncomfortable, and before I can say anything, Mr. Hollowitz begins to speak, "so. Layla I've been eyeing your artwork all year, and I have a couple of offers for you,"  I nod slowly , not sure what to expect, "firstly, next year, instead of your grade six art class, I'd like you to join mine."

My eyes widen. That was not my expectation at all, "uhh- I - I don't really- I don't know, sir," his smile disappears for a second, but he covers it up quickly, "its not that I don't want to, sir, it's just that I may not be here next year," I say hastily, noticing his reaction. 

 

"Oh,"  Says Mr. Hollowitz, "well, my next offer; There's an art program this summer that I think would be in your best interests to join. Now, it is in England, so I'm not sure what your parents might say, but many of my students are going, there is plenty of supervision, and I just think it's a great opportunity for you," he finishes with a smile on his face. 

 

England? England. England. England as in Doctor Who, Sherlock, every piece of classic literature ever! I could spend my summer in England! I sheepishly rub my neck, because like Mr. Hollowitz, I have no idea what my parents will say. 

 

"Layla?" I hear Adam saying, jolting me back to reality, "You catch any of that?"

 

No. "Yeah, that sounds great!" I lie smoothly

"So you don't mind sharing a room with strangers?"  Adam asks curiously. 

 

Of course I do! "No not at all, I just need to check with my parents!" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. 

 

"Great! Get your parents to talk to me if there are any details to work out!" Mr. Hollowitz says enthusiastically handing me a booklet the size of a SAT, "all the info is on there, and Adam can take you back to your class!" 

 

I thank him and begin to walk out the door when Adam pops into view, "you  know I can get to class on my own, right?"

 

He stares at me for a second before answering, "Hollowitz is worried someone's going to bully you and apparently they won't if I'm with you." 

 

I chuckle. Of course that's what this is about, "lies. People will bug me even if Taylor Swift is standing next to me."  I wave a hand dismissively just as a voice calls from behind me. 

 

"Hey Layla, you hiding bombs in that bag!?", I know the voice without turning around. Rowena McGrath. If Chilton Elementary school has a queen bee, it's her. 

 

"No bombs today, however I can offer you quite a few textbooks, which can be used to hit people upside the head quite effectively,"  I say spinning on my heel to face her. 

Rowena's jet black hair was curled and cascading down her back, contrasting with her fair skin. Her shocking green eyes flash with anger, "do you know who my father is? I can make sure you don't even get to high school you freak." 

 

I pretend to consider her threat, "you know what, I'm not really scared, considering I'm 11 and you're 14. Aren't you a little young to be acting like a college student in a – 

 

I'm cut off my someone grabbing my arm and yanking me into a hallway. Ready to yell at someone I whirl around and see Adam, "what the hell do you think you're doing? That's Rowena McGrath!"

 

"Why is everyone so scared of her? This is Middle School! What's she gonna do, sabotage your volunteer hours?" I ask incredulously 

 

Adam huffs in exasperation, "just – don't mess around with her. She's a 14 girl who thinks she's 21. That's a dangerous combination."

 

I press my lips together, sceptical. "Whatever you say, Adam," and then I twist out of his grasp and walk down the hall to my art class. 

 

_______________________________

April 

Dublin, Ireland 

June 16th, 2015

 

One foot after the other. Keep running. If I stop, I won't stop. One foot after another. The only sound other than my blood rushing in my ears is my feet hitting the cement, perfectly in time with my heartbeat. 

Inhale. Exhale. Almost there. I can see the pylon marking the end of two kilometres . Just keep running. The snack of my running shoes on the pavement is almost therapeutic, because of how often I hear it. As routine as breathing, every day after school, I would go for a run around the neighbourhood. Good distraction from everything at home. In October, Ms. Spears noticed me running, and asked me to join the track team. Needless to say, I said yes. 

 

I push myself to the limit and run as hard and fast as I can to the end mark. My breathing laboured, I jog over to Ms. Spears – or, Coach Spears, considering she's not a teacher during track practice. 

 

"How was that?" I ask. If I want to make a competitive team next year, I need to get down from 12 minutes down to 10. 

 

She checks her stopwatch and smiles encouragingly, "ten seconds less than your personal best. Keep it up all summer and tryouts will be a breeze."

 

I smile and nod, happy with my progress so far. I start to walk back to the court to stretch with my team, when I hear my phone ringing loudly. Yes, phone. Let's just say, my mom got it in case of a ... family emergency. 

 

Sure enough, the screen lit up with my mother's contact info. Sighing, I answered the phone, knowing that my mom never calls my cell number unless something is very, very wrong. 

 

"Hello?" I say into the speaker, halting in the field. 

 

There's a few seconds of shaky breathing before my moms voice comes through, "April? Are you there?"

 

My brow furrows in concern. Something must not be okay. "Yes mom. I'm here? Is everyone okay?"

 

"No. Well your dad and I are , we're fine. It's just –

 

I cut her off urgently, "is it Faith? Is she okay? Where are you? Where is she?"

"We're at the hospital. Dad is gonna come pick you up, okay sweetie? You're just going to take it easy at home. You'll see Faith later, I promise."

 

Nope. Not happening. "Tell dad not to bother. I'll see you in 20 minutes." This cannot be happening. Again. I run over to Ms. Spears, words coming out of my mouth without a filter, "coach, I really need to go, it's an emergency and I just have to leave right now I'm sorry is that okay?"

 

Ms. Spears blinks rapidly, obviously having a hard time processing the steam of words that had come out of my mouth. I don't blame her, I wasn't  sure I had even said something comprehensible. After a moment she simply says, "yeah, uhm- go ahead," I'm already grabbing my duffel and running towards the bus stop when she calls after me, "that's an extra suicide next practice April!"

 

"Wouldn't expect anything less!" I holler back over my shoulder, and then I keep running. The bus comes in one minute. I can make it. 

 

As I'm running, I see the bus round the corner towards the stop. Full speed now, I sprint towards the stop, skidding on the pavement just as the doors open. 

 

"Pass?" The driver, Gus , asks in the same bored voice that he always talks in. I flash my bus pass and sit in a seat, letting my heart rate go down. 

 

Inhale. Count up to seven. Hold. Count to four. Exhale. Count to eight. Repeat. After about a minute, my breathing is regulated, and I allow myself to focus on the situation at hand. 

 

Dear God, please let her be okay, I thought to myself. Jesus, I'm only in year five, why am I dealing with all this heavy crap? I gaze out the window, contemplating what the heck I would do if she wasn't okay. 

 

My phone starts ringing again, and I answer it without even checking the ID, hoping that it was Mom with news about Faith. 

"Mom? Is Faith okay?"

 

The only response I get is an automated voice saying, "congratulations! You have the chance to win a brand new iPhone if you call the –

 

I hang up before the message finishes and rub my tired eyes with the heels of my hands. "Victoria hospital," the bus driver calls. In a split second, I'm out of my seat, running out of the bus and towards the entrance of the hospital. 

 

Pushing the doors open, I hurry towards the front desk, and ask the receptionist urgently, "I'm looking for Faith Elizabeth Lee. What room is she?!"

 

The woman's brow furrows. "What is your relationship with the patient? I can't let you in unless – 

 

I slam my hand down on the desk, and many heads turn at the tiny fifth grader who' s demanding entry, "I'm her damn sister. And so help me God, if you don't let me in, I'll be a lot more troublesome than an annoying 11 year old."

 

She raises a perfectly arched eyebrow and huffs loudly. "Alright kid. You can calm down. Your sister is in ICU, room 65. Happy?"

 

I nod, already pushing off the desk and sprinting to the nearest elevator. Having been here more times than I'd like to acknowledge, I know exactly which room the lady at the desk was talking about. I skid to a stop  in front of the shiny elevator, ignoring the weird looks I got from other people. 

Tapping my foot impatiently, I mutter quietly, "come on, come on, open up," and as if it could hear me, the elevator dings and slides open. I rush in , only one boy there already, and punch floor ten. The door slides shut again, and I'm left in agonizing silence, save the cheesy elevator music this hospital insists on playing. Suddenly the elevator thuds to a stop. 

 

I freeze, praying that wasn't what I think it is. When the door fails to open after a minute, I groan. "No! No, no, no! This can not be happening! Not now!"

 

I slam my hand against the stainless steel, as if that would help. "Open up, you useless machine!" 

 

"I don't think it can hear you," the boy says next to me offers. I whip around and get a better look at him. He looks to be about 15, or so, though his long limbs might add to the illusion that he's taller – and therefore older – than he really is. Midnight dark hair hangs over his eye that twinkles  with mischief. 

 

"You're staring," his voice snaps me back to reality, as I realize that I had, indeed, zoned out while observing him. 

 

I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut in an attempt to shut out the situation. "Sorry," I mutter under my breath. "This is just a really bad time to get stuck in an elevator." 

He barks a laugh, "tell me about it. I'm gonna be late for dialysis again. What are you heading to the ICU for? You look pretty okay."

 

Pressing my lips together, I hesitate. My sister's situation – for lack of a better word – isn' something  I like to broadcast. He must have taken my moment of hesitation as embarrassment because he quickly tried to backpedal, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry, but we' re stuck in an elevator and I was trying to make conversation –

 

I silence him with a look, "what are you apologizing for?" He shrugs, sheepishly. 

"Look, I'm fine. I'm just here for my sister, and I am definitely not telling you why she's in ICU, so don't bother asking. I hear him mumble a faint, "okay then," but then we're back in the awkward silence, and our situation suddenly smacks me in the face. 

 

"Hey guy?" I ask the stranger. He looks up and I continue, "is anyone gonna come get us?" 

 

His lips quirk up in a smile, "yeah, this happens all the time. I already alerted them. It usually takes about an hour for them to get here." 

 

I'm sure my eyes just about popped out of my head. An hour?! What the hell was I supposed to do for a whole hour? Panic and worry about my sister? Groaning internally, I slide down the wall and sit on the cool metal floor. 

 

All I can think as I pull out my phone and plug my headphones is a bitter, 'happy birthday to me.'

 

_______________________________

Trinity 

London, England

June 16th, 2015

 

I hate being blonde. Honestly, everyone just assumes I'm rich, spoiled, stupid – I don't particularly mind being called the other two, considering I am technically rich, but being called stupid is something I cannot handle – and for some reason everyone thinks that I'm obsessed with Frappuccinos from Starbucks – which, by the way, are completely and utterly disgusting – and to be frank, I don't completely get it. 

 

I mean, don't get me wrong, I know I come from a pretty privileged situation, considering I'm white and wealthy, but it's still an extremely annoying thing to deal with, considering I'm only 11.

 

What caused my sudden rant about the cons of being blonde? The boy sitting behind me in math class, who decided to make a very not funny joke about a blonde who couldn't find the 11 when she needed to dial 911. Which prompted me and about five other girls to scold him about why that was sexist, which prompted a conversation about women's rights in the world, which obviously got quite messy. 

 

And just think, if the 'dumb blonde' wasn't a trope, the boy never would've made the joke, and we wouldn't have had to argue. Though, to be honest, he probably would have made a different joke of the same degree of sexism, and the argument would've still happened. 

Another reason I hate being blonde, is because it gives people a chance to say, "oh Trinity! You look so much like your mother!" And believe me, I truly do not want to be compared to my mother. 

 

Why? I'd rather  not get into that right about now, thanks very much. 

 

"Trinity?" Someone says loudly, "Trinity!" They yell into my ear, so loud I'm sure an eardrum had broken. If the goal was to shove me out of my mind palace and into the real world, goal achieved. 

 

I blink a couple of times to focus myself and see that it was my best friend, Maia, who had tried to rob me of my hearing just now. 

"Did you hear anything I just said, Trin? At all?" She asks, annoyed. I don' t blame her. I'd be mad at me too if I were her. 

 

I scrunch up my face, "no?" It comes out more of a question than answer. I close my eyes, bracing for an outburst, but it doesn't come. When I open my eyes, I see Maia staring intently at me. Her eyes are a cool gray, hard and calculating when they need to be, but soft and gentle at the same time. Right now they are the latter. 

She leans forward and says witch conviction that no one else I know has mastered, "fess up." 

I'm taken aback. I was expecting a lengthy speech about not letting my mind wander as much as it does and instead only two words? I can only let out a strangled, "huh?"

 

Maia nods towards me, her midnight black hair bobbing with her head as she does, "you're going to snap your pen in half if you squeeze it any harder. What the heck is up?"

I look down and notice that my knuckles are indeed white from the pressure of squeezing my pen in my fists. "Just. . . School stuff has me stressed, I guess."

 

Maia raises her eyebrows and slowly and deliberately says, "right. I'm supposed to believe that Trinity Winters, who probably doesn't even know what a 70% looks like , the same Trinity Winters who just got accepted into the genius school – 

 

I interrupt, "it's not a genius school it's just –

Maia holds up a hand to dismiss me, "gifted, genius, whatever. Semantics. Point is, I'm not  buying that school is bugging you, so come on. What's really up with you?"

 

Somehow Maia always knows when I'm lying. We met in the first grade, and even then, her stunning gray eyes caught my attention, the way they were both cloudy skies during a storm and a gentle mist on an early morning. The way her lips quirked upwards when she knew she was right, all of it. Everything about her grabbed my eye, and as soon as she bounced over and boldly introduced herself, we became friends. And since then, she' shad an uncanny ability to know when I'm telling the truth. 

 

I sigh loudly in resignation, tilting my head back to look avoid looking her in the eye. "Fine. It's my Mom."

 

Silence. Always silence when the 'M' word was spoken. It was the only time when Maia didn't know what to say or do. No one did. 

 

"Has she been drinking again?" Maia asks softly, as if she thinks I'm a porcelain doll that's going to crack if she utters a word too loudly. I hate that. I hate people waljing on eggshells around me, whether they're talking about my mom, or afraid of offending the white girl when they talk about racism. I hate feeling singled out. 

 

"Yeah. Yeah she has," I try not to let my voice crack. The truth is, she never stopped. She comes home, tells me to stop reading because I don't need school anyway, then downs more beers than most kids my age think possible. I envy their innocence. 

 

Maia squeezes my hand with both of hers and offers me a smile. "Look on the bright side," she says happily, "it's your birthday! Eleven years old, whoo! Now come, on, we need to get you home so that you can get ready for your party."

___________

 

You know the saying home is where the heart is? If that's true, then the mansion I'm standing in front of, bracing myself to enter, is definitely not home. I may not be an expert, but I am fairly sure that  your heart is not supposed to be beating out of your chest when you think about going back to your house after school

 

Three seconds, I tell myself. Three seconds, then I'll go inside. 

 

One.

I can do this. All I have to do is walk through the door and put on a smile and play the part of the perfect, obedient, docile daughter. I can do this. 

 

Two. 

Breathe. I just have to breathe. Inhale, exhale. When you  breathe deeply it sends a signal to your brain which sends a signal to your body to relax. Breathe. 

 

Three. 

Ten feet. Ten feet and seven centimetres is how far the door is. The door that leads into a place that I hate so much for some reason. Ten feet. 

 

I blink hard and force myself to start walking to towards the huge wooden double doors. Stopping on the porch, I brace myself and, grabbing the brass doorknob with a shaky hand, push the door open. 

 

Silence. Complete, and utter silence. That's odd, considering I can usually at least hear whichever maid my Mother has not grown tired of. Dropping my bag on the floor, I pad into the kitchen where the cook; Harry, usually is. As I hear it, I notice the room is dark. I frown. That is odd. 

 

"Hello?" I call into the room, flipping the light switch on. "Harry? Irma? Are you guys here?" Before I can take a step further, Harry, Irma, and the rest of the help jump out from under the counter. 

 

"Happy birthday Trinity!" They chorus. Harry and Irma step forward to hug me, and in my shock I stand there slackly before hugging them back. 

 

"Your mum told us to make ourselves scarce for your party, so we figured we would give you something now," Harry holds out a small cupcake, a single candle burning brightly. 

A blush creeps up my neck as I quietly say, "you didn't have to do this for me."

 

Irma looks horrified at the mere prospect that I would say such a thing, "well of course we didn't! That's just  what family does!" 

Family. She called me family. 

 

"Now make a wish and blow out the ruddy candle before it starts dripping all over the frosting," Harry chastises and I hold the cupcake in my hand before making a single wish. 

 

I wish to find a home. Not a house, a home. 

And then I blow the candle out, extinguishing it's fiery light.


	2. I’m a what now?

Sam 

Later that day

 

Packing is literally the worst thing in the world. Like, you to decide what I want to take home for a week, and I just have too much stuff. My suitcase probably fits enough clothes for the time till the rest of my belongings will be sent home, but other than that, what about my books? My CDs? My movie and tv show DVD collection? 

 

It would be pretty cool if I had a magic bag that didn't end. Like Mary Poppins. Or the Doctor's TARDIS. That way I wouldn't have to decide what I want to take, I could just put the whole damn closet in the bag. And I could hide in it when Ella calls me to yell at me. But, I'm actually not a time traveler or something equally as cool, so I'll have to make due with my boring suitcase that has a finite amount of space. 

 

Jason had helped me pack some of my stuff, but then he had to run off to basketball practice. Or maybe it was football. Honestly, with the amount of sports he does, I wouldn't be fazed if he was at tennis practice. So now, I'm stuck by myself – I mean, I am great company, but a girl does get sick of hearing herself talk after a while – trying to pack, which, as you can imagine, isn't actually going anywhere. 

 

It' s actually a relief when the dorm phone starts ringing loudly, at least now I'll have an excuse for not packing, other than just 'I lost track of time'. Hopping off the bed, where I had been laying so uselessly, I head over to the night table where the phone had been charging, and answer the call. 

 

"Dorm 34 speaking," I say the mandatory greeting, keeping my voice cool and bored. 

A clearing of a throat that I've heard many times. The rustle of papers being moved. 

Then, "Sam, you have a visitor." Nothing else from the headmistress. Just one statement, then I'm left alone with the dial tone beeping annoyingly. Talk about dramatics. 

 

Ella said that I have a visitor. There aren't many people it could be, considering I don't have many friends, and even if I did, who would come out here in the middle  of the school year, on a Thursday evening, to visit me, of all people?

 

A single, fleeting thought crosses my mind. Maybe it's Dad. I dismiss the thought as quickly as it came, because I know by now being optimistic only sets you up to be disappointed. 

 

If you don't care about anything, you're never disappointed. My mantra. Don't get attached. Don't get your hopes up. Don't give people a second chance. I've been telling myself that for a year. So why is it, that even  as I stalk upstairs to the office, I can still hear a nagging voice in the back of my mind hoping that my visitor is my father?

 

I keep my hands in my pockets as an attempt to look aloof, trying to convince myself that I don't hope the visitor is my father, because, let's be honest. It probably isn't, and if I get my hopes up, I'm gonna be cranky for the rest of the day, which isn't fun for anyone. 

Maybe I got mail. Maybe it's the Doctor coming to take me away in his TARDIS. Maybe it's the Doctor delivering me mail that was sent mistakenly to his TARDIS. All of these options seem pretty cool. 

 

But, as I throw open the door, flicking my red hair out of my face, it's not my father, or a mail carrier, or – unfortunately – the Doctor. No, sitting in the chair in front of the headmistress' desk is a woman who I've never laid eyes on before, but she looks a lot like Emma Watson. 

 

I tilt my head to the side. "Who are you?" Ella's eyes bulge, and she opens her mouth to remind me of my manners, but the woman holds up a hand and Ella goes silent. 

She purses her lips and says, "that's a little difficult to explain. Why don't you and I take a walk, Samantha?" 

 

 

I only know three things about this woman who is my 'visitor':

1- She's from England 

2- She's important – or at least is very good at faking it, considering she walked into Ella Kingsley's office, and was able to tell her to shut her trap. 

3- Her name is Hermione Granger, as her name tag on the grey blouse informed me. 

Other than that, I truly have no idea who this Hermione Granger is, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious to find out. Long, caramel coloured hair is tied back in an elegant updo, that makes her look sophisticated, but also casual enough. Kitten heels click on the floors of the hallway as we walk. 

 

"So, I believe I should warn you, what I'm going to tell you in the next little bit, is going to shock you into another dimension. You probably won't believe me for a while, and that's okay, because when McGonagall told me, I wasn't exactly convinced easily." 

 

I stop in my tracks. "Please get on with it, all due respect, I have a crap ton of cardboard boxes that need to be filled." This woman is crazy if she thinks I have all day. 

 

Hermione stops also, looking me dead in the eye with s piercing gaze, so sharp it could cut off my hair. "There's really no way around it, so I'll just tell you; Sam, you're not normal. You can do things that most people can't. You're ... gifted."

 

I arch an eyebrow. "Like, I'm smart, or ..."

She furrows her brow. "Not exactly, no. I think it may be easier to show you." 

Show me what, exactly? I have no idea.  I'm honestly still hoping for a TARDIS or something. But, I get the feeling that's not exactly what this Hermione Granger has in mind. 

 

Without further warning, Hermione grabs hold of my arm, and simply says, "hold on tight," before she whirls around and I'm whipped into oblivion. 

 

Spinning. 

I'm spinning. Fast as a rocket, but slow as time can feel as well. Maybe I'm not spinning, maybe I'm falling. 

 

Yeah, I am definitely falling. Or spinning. I still can't tell. It feels like I've been spinning for hours on end, like in a movie when someone casts a spell and the protagonist is falling through an abyss for what seems like an eternity. 

 

Magic. That's what is always is in movies. Maybe it's magic. 

 

Suddenly the spinning stops, and I stumble into a crowded street. I look to my right, and Hermione is still standing there, her hand on my arm. She looks over at me, grinning slyly. "I told you to hold on." 

 

A clock rings loudly, once, twice, and I look up to see the source of the sound. My stomach lurches when I realize where we are.

"Hermione?" I groan. "I think I'm gonna be sick." She grimaces, and suddenly  – is that a wand I see her wave – there's paper bag in my cold hands. 

 

We sit down on a bench and stay in silence, me breathing into the paper bag, and her waiting patiently. 

 

"I was sick my first time too, you know." I look over at her, curiously. "What we jut did, it's called apparating. And you can do it too, once you're old enough, and have proper training." 

 

I have literally never been more confused in my life. And that's saying a lot, considering I was never the brightest in math class. "Are you telling me, that I can teleport?" I ask slowly. "Is this the matrix or something? Is the whole world a digital reality I can bend to my will?" 

 

Hermione chuckles lightly, and says, "not quite the matrix, no. However, you are a witch. Meaning, you can bend reality to an extent. Though there are laws to magic."

I press my lips together. "Witch, as in fancy wand, and broomsticks, and black cats?" Not gonna lie, that would be pretty awesome. 

 

"Well, The wands aren't exactly fancy – they basically just look like a stick – and to be honest, broomsticks are overrated, unless you like quidditch, and no one wears black hats except the old fashioned teachers, but other than that, yes, you're a witch." 

 

This woman is telling me to abandon all logic, science, common sense, and believe in magic. In any other circumstance, I would probably laugh in her face and tell her that she's whack, but considering she just teleported is from Toronto to freaking England, I would probably believe her if she told me that I'm actually an alien born on Jupiter, and I have telekinesis. 

 

"So, what was the training you were talking about? Is it like, a headquarters where I have a really cool instructor and I get turned into an awesome witch who can take people down by blinking?" I ask. I can question my existence later. Now, I want to know everything. 

 

Hermione lifts a brow and replies, "no, actually. It's a school. Called Hogwarts – never mind the name, I know it sounds ridiculous – and it runs from age 11 to age 17. Normally, since you live in North America, you would go to Ilvermorny, but there's been a bit of an overflow, and Hogwarts is more than large enough for a couple hundred extra students.

 

"The classes include transfiguration, charms, potions, care of magical creatures, history of magic, and then there are many electives you can choose from as well. The school is located in Scotland, but you'll take the train from King's Cross station on September 1st."

 

I nod, taking all the information in. "What about like, math, science, regular classes?" Don't get me wrong, magic classes sound awesome, but there are still some basics that I should probably know. I'd like to know how to find the variable before I die, thank you very much. 

 

"Yeah, Hogwarts doesn't actually have those classes. You and me, we have normal parents – people like us are called muggleborns, a Muggle is someone without magic – but most students were raised in magic families. There are a bunch of online courses you can take to keep up with your regular studies, of course, when I was your age, the internet didn't really exist, so I had to buy all my textbooks and do it myself." 

 

"What, so most wizards and witches just don't know math and science?" I ask baffled. The idea seems pretty illogical for a group of people with magic. 

 

Hermione shrugs loosely. "Some do, but that's usually just cause they're curious about the world around them, not because they're required to learn it." 

 

So far today, I have been expelled,  teleported – sorry, apparated – to England, been told that I am a witch, found out I was accepted into a magic school in Scotland, and am now having a conversation about being a Muggleborn with an Emma Watson look-a-like. Talk about a busy birthday. 

 

Suddenly an idea occurs to me. "So, where would I get textbooks? Im assuming they wouldn't be at my local bookstore. Is there some sort of magical, hidden wizard mall?" 

Hermione grins slyly. "I thought you'd never ask."

_________________________

 

 

Aaaand I'm spinning again. As we come to a lurching stop once again, my stomach doing backflips like Simone Biles on a trampoline, I wonder how many times of this – what did Hermione call it? Appa something or other? – it will take before I don't want to puke my guts out every time I come to a stop. 

 

Once I've regained my sense of balance and the world is no longer spinning, I look at our surroundings properly. To be honest, it doesn't exactly look like I expected a secret magical wizard mall would. In fact, it looks like it's just regular old England. There's a coffee shop, a bookstore, and other everyday stores. 

 

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I notice something weird. In between the coffee shop and the bookstore, there is a small – I think it's a pub? – building that says 'The Leaky Cauldron'. That isn't what is odd though. What is weird, is that for some reason everyone seems to not be able see it. Their eyes slide right from the first shop to the next, as if the pub is invisible. No one walks in, no one even glances at it. 

 

An idea occurs to me. Turning to Hermione, I ask slowly, "Is... is this place – The Leaky Cauldron – is it only visible for witches and wizards?"

 

Hermione claps slowly in approval. "Well done. Most people don't realize that on their own." She gestures to the small pub. "Shall we?" 

 

She walks surely though the door of The Leaky Cauldron  and disappears in the pub. I wonder what people see when she walks through that door. Do they see a woman walking through brick walls? Or is she obscured from their vision like the hidden building? I make a mental note to ask her, and then follow her through the creaky, brass doors. 

 

I am instantly surrounded by the sounds of laughter and conversation. Looking around, the majority of the people are dressed in long black robes. The bartender is levitating a book so he can read as he mixes drinks. 

Crap. Where the heck is Hermione? Don't tell me I've lost my ride home. Though I would be lying if I said that I would hate to be stuck in England. Of all places to be stuck in, England ranks pretty low on the 'how much does this suck' scale. 

 

My heart swells in relief when I see her across the bar, arguing with a blond man. Judging by their body language, this is not just a bar fight – there is clearly some history between the two. 

 

I know I shouldn't, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I quietly walk closer to the pair, keeping my head down to avoid being noticed. Once I'm close enough, I stop and listen to their conversation. 

 

"It's not safe, Hermione. Someone could get hurt," he hisses, a pale hand clenched at his side. 

 

"Oh this is not the time for you to be expressing your- your blood prejudices Malfoy!" She spits right back at him. 

 

He lets out an exasperated sigh and snaps at her, "this isn't about goddamned prejudices, it's about lives. Do you and Potter realize that? Do you realize that bringing in these kids it might end in more disappearances? Or are you two so focused on your own little scheme that you fail to see the consequences for everyone involved – again?"

 

Hermione closes her eyes firmly and says shortly, "now isn't the time to be discussing past events, Malfoy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a soon to be student to attend to." 

Without another word, Hermione turns away from the man, and walks briskly towards the entrance, where she had left me.. Oh shoot. I probably wasn't supposed to be hearing me. I frantically try to rub the other way, but there are too many people in the small confines of the pub, and I end up tripping on somebody's foot and falling flat on my face. 

 

"Ow," I mutter, laying sprawled on the hard wooden floor. It suddenly occurs to me how out of place I just look, in my ripped jeans and black tank top, amongst the room full of wizards in black robes and dress pants. I probably look even weirder considering I'm now on the floor for everyone to see. 

 

It also occurs to me that the sounds of tinkling laughter and conversation has dwindled, and the pub is now completely quiet. If people weren't looking at me before, they certainly are now. 

 

"Sam?" I hear Hermione say. I roll over onto my back and see her standing over me, a slightly amused, slightly annoyed expression on her face. Getting up, I dust off my shirt and jeans. 

 

"Hi?" I offer weakly, reaching  up to run a hand through my hair in an attempt to seem aloof. I don't think it works. 

 

Hermione frowns slightly, and grabs my elbow, tugging gently to signal me to follow her. She leads me to an empty corner and says quietly enough that no one else can hear, "I'm really sorry Sam, I have to bring you home. Something came up, and I just remembered I was supposed to get you back 30 minutes ago."

 

"But – 

 

"Listen, there's a website, called 'Diagon Alley'. Go on it, order all your supplies. I'll email you a list. Except for your wand. You can come back July 6th, we'll be doing a whole tour for muggleborns in Diagon Alley. You can buy your wand then."

 

Website. Diagon Alley. No wand. July sixth. Got it.  And before I know what's happening, Hermione has grabbed my elbow again, and I'm punched in the gut with the now familiar spinning feeling of apparating. 

 

We come to a stop. I close my eyes and lean on the nearest wall to regain my balance. 

 

"It was nice to met you Sam," Hermione says. Then she's gone without a trace, and I'm left alone in my big empty dorm room once again.


	3. All I wanted was cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Layla comes home to a disappointing lack of chocolate cake, and then an odd visitor

Layla 

 

I am such an idiot. What the heck was I thinking? England? An art program? There are so many ways I screwed up, I think I could write a book about it that challenges anything John Green. First of all, there is no way in hell my parents would let me go, and even if they did, I am 11! I can't go to England for the summer! And how in the world am I going to explain this to my parents? 'Oh, hey Mama, can I go to England, cause I sorta already said yes. Anyway, how was your day?'.  Not exactly a typical conversation opener. 

And don't even get me started on what happened with Rowena freaking McGrath. There are a lot of colourful words I could call her, but because I'm a kid, and I like to think my thoughts are PG rated, I'm going to stick with calling her a jerk with a stick up her butt.  

And now, trudging home in the gross summer heat, I'm starting to wish I called her some of those colourful names  when I had the chance. Moral of the story? Life's too short for regrets, call the person you hate that name you were thinking. Just kidding, that's terrible advice, and it'll probably get you suspended. 

Back to my mom, she's possibly the coolest person in my life. My dad might be the only person who could tie her coolness.  She's five feet and five inches of pure awesomeness. A human rights lawyer who kicks butt in the courtroom and out of it, and the reason I got into art in the first place. 

Little bit of background about my family, my mom grew up in Chicago, but y dad moved here when he was 13 from Qatar. I've lived here my whole life, so technically I'm 2.5 generation immigrant ( 2nd generation on my dad's side and 3rd generation on my Mom's) but I don't really think about that much. I have an older brother in grade 9, and an older sister in grade 11. We're a pretty average black muslim family.  Or as average as a black Muslim family can be in modern day America. 

So I still have absolutely no idea how I'm going to explain the absolute mess that I got myself into , and now I have no time to figure that out, cause I'm home. 

"Mama, I'm home!" I call into the house, as I open the door and kick off my sandals. When no one answers, I holler again, "May? Hamdi? Is anyone home?"

"Down here!" Hamdi tells from the basement. He's probably working on MSA stuff. Apparently his school doesn't have an MSA – I'm not surprised, considering it's a catholic prep school - , so he's trying to set one up for next year. I drop my bag and run down the stairs into his room. 

"Where's Mama?" I ask, not bothering to knock or announce myself. 

He jumps in surprise, hitting his knee on the hard desk. "Shit!" He mutters under his breath, before turning to me and grumbling, "it wouldn't've  killed you to knock, yeah?" 

I shrug casually. "Sorry, didn't realize that you're so jumpy." He simply glares at me. 

"So?" I ask. 

Hamdi stares back at me. "So? What? What do you want?" 

Rolling my eyes, I reply shortly, "do you know where Mama is?" 

He taps a finger against his chin as of thinking, then says, "pretty sure she's out with May to go get some new hijabs or something. She said they'll be home around when you get back, so they should be home soon."

Okay then. Mother, father, and sister all not home, leaving me alone with Hamdi, with no supervision. So, what do you do when there aren't any parents home? Well, it's obvious; you make chocolate cake. Especially since it's the day before Ramadan. If I'm not gonna be eating all day for a month, you better believe I'm gonna stuff my face the day before it all starts. 

I head back up the stairs to the kitchen pantry, where the cake mix is – I know how to make a cake from scratch, but my craving for chocolate needs to be satisfied, so the end justifies the means. 

Before I can get to the pantry, my iPod buzzes, alerting me of a new message. 

May- *will be home later than we thought. You + Hamdi can order dinner if you want* 

Okay, awesome. Cake, and takeout dinner, in one day! I open the pantry and rummage through the shelves, looking for the cake mix. That's weird. It's not here. Maybe Hamdi made it or something. 

"HEY HAMDI!" I holler as loud as I can, hoping he can hear me all the way down in the basement. 

I wait for a second and huff as I start to walk towards the staircase when I hear him yell back. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?" 

"DO YOU KNOW WHERE THE CAKE MIX WENT?" My voice is going to be seriously sore by the time I actually eat the damn cake. 

It takes a minute for Hamdi respond, during which I hear multiple crash sounds coming from the basement, followed by a loud 'DAMMIT NOT AGAIN', followed by lots of cursing. "I THINK MALIK AND I FINISHED IT LAST TIME HE WAS HERE BUT YOU CAN GO PICK SOME UP FROM WALMART IF YOU WANT," he finishes yelling and I weigh my options; step into the molten lava hell that is the outside, or go hungry and not satisfy my chocolate craving. What will win, my common sense, or my love for chocolate cake? 

________________________

 

Chocolate cake won. And have I mentioned I hate busses? They're always late, they smell, and they're full of creepy racist people. Not my kinda place. But, I really want that cake mix, and there's no way in hell that I'm walking in this heat. So here I am. On the smelly, late, full of racists, bus. 

I gently pull on the yellow wire above my seat to alert the driver that I need to get off at the next stop. Unfortunately, the Walmart is a short  walk from the stop, but I'll survive I guess. 

The bus stops on the side of the street, and I quickly exit through the doors, plugging my earphones in and walking quickly towards the plaza. When you're a black muslim girl in a racist sexist xenophobic world, you learn pretty quickly how to avoid public attention. Head down, earphones in – but don't play any music, in case an ambulance comes or something and you can't hear – and walk fast. Hands in pockets, keys between your knuckles. Thankfully, I've never had to actually defend myself, just ignore people, but my sister May has, and she's adamant that I know how to protect myself when I go out on my own into the city – which isn't very often, cause I'm only 11 years old. 

I jog into Walmart, sighing in content when I feel the cool air hit my face. Quickly navigating the busy aisles, I find the baking section and grab the chocolate cake mix off the shelf. I pay my pocket to make sure my wallet is there, and once I'm assured, I head over to an empty cashier so I can pay and get out of here (and eat my cake) 

________________________

 

After another stinky, late bus ride, I arrive back home. That's weird . There's a silver  Toyota Corolla on our driveway. Neither of my parents own a Toyota, so who is it? 

Frowning, I pull out my key and jam it into the keyhole. This stupid key always gets stuck in the door. Usually if you give it a good kick, it loosens up, so I do just that. I back up, wind up my leg, and give it a good hard –

"Oof!" The door suddenly swings open, and I fall flat on my face in the welcome mat. 

"Jeez," I hear Hamdi say. "What did the door ever do to you?" 

I groan loudly, brushing my pants off as I get up. "That stupid key never works, so I was gonna kick it," I explain to Hamdi to prevent further teasing about my horrible coordination. 

I suddenly remember the Toyota in our driveway, and start to ask Hamdi, "So why is there a Corolla in our driveway? Did Baba get a new car or something?"

Hamdi is opening his mouth to respond, when I hear a voice coming from the living room. "Layla Ahmad, right?" My eyes widen at what he says, and it's only a second before I have a face to match the voice. 

A man comes into view, probably in his mid- thirties. He's tall and dark skinned, with a fine beard. I feel like I've seen him in some lawyer  show that May watches. Suits maybe? Or How to Get Away with Murder? 

"Sorry if I gave you a fright, Hamdi let me in. My name is Dean Thomas, and I'm here to tell you about a very special school."

I look at him warily, my mind is still on 'random person in the house who knows your name and you've never met' mode.   
"What, like an arts school?"

Dean Thomas presses his lips together. "Can we sit down? I know this seems a little bit suspicious, but it really is important." When I hesitate, he says gently, "you can keep 91 dialled on your phone, I won't object, I did the same thing when it was my turn." 

His turn? What's this guy talking about? I nod, and sit down on the couch in the living room – Dear lord, my mom is going to kill me for sitting on the fancy couches – but motion to Hamdi to be ready to call for help. You never know if someone's trying to kill you. 

Dean starts talking almost immediately after we're seated. "Okay. So. Layla. You, are a witch. I promise you can ask me questions when I'm done, but for now, let me get through everything. As a witch, you can do magic, including spells, potions, shape-shifting, possibilities are virtually endless. But, you need to learn to control your abilities as a bearer of magic. That's where I come in. The school I'm going to tell you about would teach you everything; history of magic, basic spells, there's even a sport that is played on brooms. 

"I know it sounds crazy, but that's only because you were raised in the muggle world – muggle means non magical – unlike most witches and wizards whose parents were wizards, and grandparents, and so on. When a witch or wizard is born into a muggle family, they're called 'Muggleborn'. That's what you are, and me. Anyway, the school – 

The jarring sound of the garage being opened fills the room, followed by the unmistakable voices of May and my mom. "They're so soft! I don't think I'm ever gonna wear my other ones again!" May says as she enters the house. 

Mama steps in as well. "Salamu Alayum Layla and Hamdi! We're home!" She walks further into the house and freezes in place when she sees Dean, as if she can't believe he's real. 

Dean rises from his seat slowly. "Hamdi, Layla, I think I should have a talk with your mother. Could you please go into the kitchen?" 

________________________

Kicked out of my own living room. Wow. My head is swimming. Me, a witch? Magic school? Muggle? I can't think straight. 

"Alright, who the fuck is that?" May hisses, as soon as we enter the kitchen. She shuts the door behind her and unties her scarlet hijab from her head, letting her dark hair cascade down her back in curly ripples. 

"Wallah if one of you doesn't answer I'm gonna flip my shit." She continues when neither of us respond. 

I decide to take a chance, and tell her, even though she'll probably laugh and not believe me – hey, I wouldn't either. I'm not sure I believe myself to be honest. "So we're not completely sure, but we think that he's a scout for a magic school where I'm supposed to go to learn how to use my witch powers." I hold my breath when I finish, waiting for her to explode on us, but it never comes. 

"Dammit. He looks just like Alfred Enoch. I was hoping you'd say that you somehow met him and now you're best friends or something," May says after a while of silence. 

I look over at Hamdi, and just like me, his jaw has dropped down to the floor. "So you believe him?" He asks her incredulously. 

May snorts loudly. "HA! No way. Dudes probably high off his balls or something. Mama will take care of it. Kick him out."

As if on cue, Mama appears in the doorway of the kitchen. "May, put your scarf back on. I need to talk to all of you." 

We all share a glance of confusion, and May – which by the way, is short for Mayada – hurriedly ties her hair back and throws her hijab back on, tossing it over her shoulder. Forever the minimalist. 

When the three of us enter the living room, both my mother and Dean Thomas have a solemn look on their faces, as if they don't want to have to explain this to all of us. 

Mama starts, "Layla, Hamdi; everything Dean told you is true. I assume you filled May in?" 

"Only partially." May narrows her eyes and looks at Dean as if she thinks she can read his mind. 

Hamdi backs off of his spot against the wall. "Hold up. How do you know this guy isn't messing with us? Saying magic is real is a pretty big claim to make." 

Mama takes a deep breath and says, "you guys all know Quinn, right?" We all nod. Quinn is Mom's best friend from middle school. "Well Quinn is a witch. She went to Ilvermorny – the American wizarding school - for a couple of years, but when her family moved to Ireland, she had to transfer to Hogwarts – a European wizarding school. Ilvermorny is currently over populated, meaning that Layla will also have to attend Hogwarts."

I let that sink in. I have to go to school in Europe. "There's no way I could just not go? I don't want to live in England!"

Dean softly says to me, "it can be extremely dangerous for a magical child to not learn how to harness his or her powers. Your magic could spiral completely out of control, and you may end up harming yourself and your friends."

I swallow hard. "Okay. So I have to go to the Europe school.  I can deal with that. Do you mind explaining it further?" I'm trying my best to stay calm, but boarding school? I don't know if I can do that. 

"I'll leave you with a card and websites, as well as my phone number. It's good for you to research it on your own, but if you have any questions, don't hesitate to give me a call." Dean says with a firm nod. 

"So are we done here?" May asks in a bored tone. 

Dean holds a finger up. "Actually, there's one more thing I want to talk to Layla about. Alone, if that's okay." 

________________________

I sit down hesitantly I'm the couch, turning my body so I'm facing Dean. "So what's up?" I ask nervously. 

Dean fiddles with his fingers. "You're a black Muslim girl."

I scrunch up my face. "Yes, I'm aware of that."

He chuckles gently. "Sorry, that came out wrong. What I mean to say, is, one black person to another, you're gonna face a lot of racism at Hogwarts."

"I already face racism," I say boldly. 

"Yeah, but in the wizarding world being Muggleborn is considered low. High class purebloods got it in their heads that they're somehow better than us because they have magic ancestors. My point is, you're gonna need a strong support system. There's an MSA, but I'd also seek out The Muggleborn Society. They do a lot of fun stuff, like movie nights and Jeopardy games, and it helps you stay in contact with this world."

I nod. "Thanks for the advice. I'll take you up on that."

Dean stands up and salutes me jokingly. "I'd better get going. I hope to see you at Hogwarts sometime Layla Ahmad."

"The same goes to you Dean Thomas." I salute him in the sane fashion, and watch as he opens the front door and walks down the walkway to his Corolla. 

Baba is going to flip when he comes home.


End file.
